η απορια του μη ησυχαζειν — Posts Tagged ‘george bacovia’

Insomniac passing anhypnic nights in writing, translation, music, mathematics, programming and whatever else captures my attention or alleviates agrypnia.


This consists mostly of quotations of things that stand out to me or reflect what's on my mind; occasionally I also post original, often more personal, content as well, which may be found under the "personal" tag. Anything posted under "translations" is also original work and may broadly be taken as personal as well as I seldom tackle a work that does not speak to or for me in some way.

March 6th, 2013 2:34pm

Melancolia m-a prins pe stradă
Sunt ameţit.
Oh, primăvara, iar a venit…
Palid, şi mut…
Mii de femei au trecut;
Melancolia m-a prins pe stradă.

E o vibrare de violete:
Trece şi Ea;
Aş vrea,
Dar nu pot s-o salut;
Oh, şi cum a trecut,
Într-o vibrare de violete.

Nimicnicia m-a prins pe stradă;
Am adormit.
Oh, primăvara, iar a venit
Pal, şi uitat…
Vals funebru, depărtat.
Melancolia mă ţine-n stradă…




Melancholy’s caught me on the street,
distressed.
Spring has come again,
pale and silent….
Thousands of women have passed by;
melancholy’s caught me on the street.

A vibration of violets,
she passes by;
I wish to,
but cannot, greet her—
and now she’s passed
into a vibration of violets.

Emptiness has caught me on the street,
dazed.
Spring has come again,
pale and forlorn….
Like a funeral song in the distance,
melancholy holds me on the street…

George Bacovia, Scântei galbene, “Nervi De Primăvară” (1926; Yellow Sparks, “Spring Anxiety”).
November 9th, 2012 9:30pm

Duduia veşnic citeşte;
ştie clavirul, pictează—
şi nopţi de-a randul veghează,
şi poate, de-aceea slăbeşte.

Se crede, şi unii o spun—
dar totul rămâne secret—
Duduia viseaz-un poet,
bizar, singuratic, nebun.




The young lady’s always reading;
she plays the piano, paints—
and nights on end she watches, waits…
and, maybe, that’s why she wastes away.

It’s thought, and some say—
though it remains a secret—
the young lady dreams of a poet,
one strange, lonely, mad.

George Bacovia, Scântei galbene, “Unei fecioare” (Yellow Sparks, “To a maiden”; 1926)
February 18th, 2012 12:47pm

O cafea neagră… şi-o ploaie de gheaţă,
Când spiritul mai arde culori în odaie—
O privire pe-o carte, pe straie,
Şi pasul mă îndrumă în dimineaţă.

Cum frigul tremurând ca o veste,
Tot plange de-al meu şi de-al tau…
Tot mai mult am rămas cu ce este,
Şi plouă cu-o părere de rău.

Am uitat dacă merg… încă tot mai iubesc…
Am ajuns la timp, ocup şi un loc.
Dar gândul apasă cu greul său bloc…
E numai vedere… nu mai pot să vorbesc…


A black coffee… and a hail of ice,
when the spirit burns more color in the room—
a glance at a book, at clothes,
then my steps lead me out in the morning.

When the cold, trembling from the news,
so mourns over what’s mine and what’s yours…
I am increasingly stuck with what’s left,
and it’s raining regret.

I’ve forgotten where I’m going… I’m still in love…
I’ve arrived in time, with a place to sit.
But the thought hits me like a brick…
There is only the vision… I can no longer speak.

George Bacovia, “Dimineaţă” from Scîntei galbene (1926; “Morning” from Yellow Sparks)

(Source: danieldockery.com)

η απορια του μη ησυχαζειν

Insomniac passing anhypnic nights in writing, translation, music, mathematics, programming and whatever else captures my attention or alleviates agrypnia.


This consists mostly of quotations of things that stand out to me or reflect what's on my mind; occasionally I also post original, often more personal, content as well, which may be found under the "personal" tag. Anything posted under "translations" is also original work and may broadly be taken as personal as well as I seldom tackle a work that does not speak to or for me in some way.